


Throw Me To The Wolves

by amethystfox



Series: The Adventures of Captain Hugo [3]
Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Aftercare, Angry Sex, Angst and Feels, BDSM, Belts, Blow Jobs, But also, Coming In Pants, Coming Untouched, Corporal Punishment, Dark, Dom/sub, Dominant Hugo, Face Slapping, Gags, Light Bondage, M/M, Oral Sex, Post-Match, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Tottenham Hotspur F.C., Tottenham Hotspur FC - Freeform, submissive Paulo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-07
Updated: 2020-03-07
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:22:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23053159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amethystfox/pseuds/amethystfox
Summary: Hugo Lloris is normally a sweet, gentle man, soft-spoken, with dark, soulful eyes. But on the pitch, he puts that all aside and becomes Captain Hugo-- stern, imposing, occasionally shouty, not afraid to throw down. Sometimes Captain Hugo shows up off the pitch as well...It hasn't been an easy season for Spurs, and the Wolves match was no different.
Relationships: Paulo Gazzaniga/Hugo Lloris
Series: The Adventures of Captain Hugo [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1656682
Comments: 4
Kudos: 19





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As with most of my Spursfics, I've used non-English dialogue; translations are at the end.

1 March 2020  
Tottenham

  
  


The door to the locker room slammed open, but almost nobody looked round. Too many of them were sunk in their own funks to take much notice of Paulo rolling in like a thundercloud in a teal kit. In the corner, though, Juan nudged Gio and raised his eyebrows, tilting his head in Paulo’s direction. The two young Argentines got up and moved together to intercept him, but were quickly blocked by Michel.

Paulo could see them talking, but could not have begun to hear a single word over the roaring in his ears. He knew his friends wanted to come to him, to try to commiserate with him, but now was not the time. He didn’t know why Mich had stopped them, but he was grateful. He didn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings, but if his _hermanitos_ tried to talk to him right now he didn’t think he could be gentle with them.

He had to get out of here. He couldn’t stomach talking to anyone right now. His first chance to play for more than a month and he had fucked it up so badly. Three goals conceded. He couldn’t stop replaying them in his head. He saw himself stumble, he saw himself fall, he saw himself lurch off his line so clumsily that he couldn’t bear it. He had to get out of here.

He didn’t stop to shower, nor to talk to any of the staff, not even Nuno, who had been so kind to him since coming to Spurs. He hadn’t thought anyone could have filled Toni’s shoes after he had been sacked along with Poch, but Nuno understood him in ways Toni had not. But there were limits, and Nuno would not be able to understand this.

He fled the stadium so quickly that he managed to dodge the press completely-- another small mercy. He couldn't imagine what would have happened if anyone had thrust a microphone in his face after a showing like this.

He drove without any kind of rational thought, any awareness of a destination. His body knew, though, and before long he was there, getting out, storming down the street-- he never parked right out front-- and bursting through the front door, slamming it behind him hard enough to echo through the whole house.

He heard a startled exclamation from somewhere in the house and stalked toward the sound, carelessly dropping his things as he went. He kicked his shoes off at some point, tossed his discarded jacket at a chair. 

Hugo looked up in mild surprise when Paulo appeared in the living room. He was sitting on the couch, legs tucked up underneath him, an ice pack on his groin, a glass of wine in his hand. As Paulo had feared, footage from the match was playing on the TV, though the commentary was mercifully muted. His cats had been curled up next to him, but when Paulo burst in, they quickly fled.

_"Salut,"_ Hugo said quietly.

Paulo's only response was a wordless snarl. He flung himself down in a chair and glared at the screen, where yet again he saw, in slow motion this time, Japhet skid ineffectively, Eric fall over, and himself flounder, legs splayed awkwardly, as the ball sailed past him.

"Can you fucking turn that off?" he snapped. He couldn't bear it.

Hugo's eyebrow shot up, but he obliged, and the screen went black. It didn't help; Hugo lacked the power to turn off the constant replay in his mind.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Hugo's voice was soft and steady, and Paulo couldn't stand it. He needed the opposite of soft and steady right now. He needed rage. He needed fear. He did not need Hugo his friend and lover, with the sweet smile and soulful eyes, who had a kind word for everyone, who always tried his best; he needed Captain Hugo.

"Of course I don't want to talk about it," Paulo growled, glaring. "If I wanted to fucking talk about it, I could have stayed at the stadium, couldn't I? Let the gaffer and the media and little captain Winksy _talk_ to me about it, couldn't I?" He snorted with disgust and folded his arms across his chest, levelling a challenging stare at Hugo.

Hugo’s eyebrows drew together and the warmth began to fade from those dark eyes of his, sure signs that sweet Hugo Lloris was giving way to Captain Hugo. Paulo felt a thrill of fear run down his spine, but he pressed on anyway.

He switched to Spanish now, knowing full well how much it irritated Hugo when he did this, deliberately talking too fast for him to be able to follow. _“Pero solo tenías que lastimarte, ¿verdad? Si hubieras sido el que está ahí afuera, esto no habría sucedido. Pero no, no, ni siquiera te molestaste en venir al juego para apoyarme, solo lo viste desde aquí, sentado cómodamente en tu sofá con tus gatos y tu vino--”_

_“Ta gueule!”_ Hugo barked suddenly. _“Encule toi, salaud.”_

Paulo’s French wasn’t any better than Hugo’s Spanish, but those were words he had heard enough to recognise. A surge of satisfaction chased the shiver of fear through his long limbs. He loved riling Hugo up. He reached over, took the glass of wine out of Hugo’s hand, and downed it in one go, grimacing at the light taste of the rosé-- he preferred his wine bolder. But the taste wasn’t the point. The look on Hugo’s face at his insolence was.

Quick as a flash, Hugo's hand shot out, seized him by the hair and dragged him out of the chair. He fell awkwardly, throwing out an arm to try to keep his balance, but Hugo's grip was firm. The wine glass flew from his hand to the far side of the room and broke. Hugo forced Paulo to his knees, lowering his feet to the floor, his legs on either side of Paulo.

"You," he growled, his voice dangerous, his eyes icy. "You know better than this, I thought."

"Maybe you don't know as much as you thought," Paulo whispered.

The blow came so quickly that Paulo had no chance to brace himself for it. Hugo released his hair and slapped him across the face, hard enough to send him reeling, his ear and jaw exploding with pain. It was what he wanted; it wasn't nearly enough.

He recovered quickly enough and turned back to Hugo, who was watching him with glittering eyes, one hand curled into a fist. Paulo badly wanted him to use that fist on him.

"Is that all, _mon Capitaine?"_ he asked, getting to his feet, leaning over Hugo in a way he rarely dared. "I thought your arm was all better now."

Hugo grabbed a fistful of Paulo's shirt, pulling him down again so that they were face to face. "Don't worry," he said softly. "It is." He shoved Paulo down to the floor, standing up from the couch and looking down at him disdainfully. "Clean that up and go wait for me in the bedroom."

He stalked away from Paulo, back into the kitchen. Paulo got to his knees, thinking. He eyed the broken glass, then smirked and stood up, ignoring the mess and going straight to Hugo's bedroom, enjoying the loud slam of the door behind him.

He was almost never this insubordinate. He loved the arrangement that he and Hugo had, and was normally eager to obey his Captain on the pitch and off. But sometimes… sometimes it was about more than the need to submit. Sometimes Paulo’s emotions boiled over, making him crave this, the violence that Hugo almost never let show. There were, after all, limits to how much of their underlying aggression either of them could exorcise on the pitch.

He looked around Hugo’s bedroom now, eager to find more ways to infuriate Hugo. He considered stripping out of his clothes, but he enjoyed it too much when Hugo undressed him. Instead he decided to just have a seat in Hugo’s beautiful leather reading chair, putting his sweaty, sock-clad feet up on the ottoman and clasping his hands behind his head.

Hugo came in a few minutes later, carrying another glass of wine. When he saw Paulo lounging in his chair, still in his grass-stained kit, he carefully set the glass down on the bureau, his expressive eyes gone flat.

“Get up,” he growled, stalking over to loom over Paulo.

Paulo unclasped his hands and let his arms fall to his sides, raising an eyebrow. “Make me,” he breathed as Hugo bent over him.

To his delight Hugo did just that, seizing him by the collar and hauling him out of the chair easily. Paulo knew that he was stronger than Hugo, but the difference was marginal, and Paulo loved when Hugo did things like this.

Standing, Paulo folded his arms over his chest and stood up straight, knowing that Hugo hated when Paulo looked _down_ at him while he was trying to be dominant.

“Get on your knees.”

Paulo opened his mouth to remind Hugo that he had just told Paulo to stand up, that he should make up his mind, but before he had a chance Hugo slapped him across the face again, grabbed a handful of Paulo’s hair, and dragged his head down to waist level on Hugo, effectively forcing him to his knees.

“Keep your fucking mouth shut, _putain,”_ Hugo hissed. He took hold of the collar of Paulo’s teal goalkeeper shirt in both hands, twisting the fabric around his long, elegant fingers. Then he yanked his fists apart, ripping the shirt almost completely in two and baring Paulo’s chest.

_“Pourquoi penses-tu pouvoir me parler de cette façon, ma petite pute?”_ Hugo demanded, dropping the remains of Paulo’s shirt to dangle limply around his hips. _“Avais-tu une mauvaise journée? Pauvre bébé.”_ His voice was mocking, sending a shiver of humiliation washing through Paulo.

_"He tenido peor, pero tú también, por supuesto,"_ Paulo retorted, making sure to keep his eyes fixed on Hugo's. He wasn't sure if he dared actually say the word _Bayern_ or not, but he had a feeling he wouldn't have to.

Hugo backhanded him across the face without even changing expression. Pain flared in Paulo's mouth, and he tasted blood, but he managed to stay upright.

_"Comment oses-tu? Ta gueule, maintenant, garce."_

Hugo had his hand in Paulo's hair again. _"Aujourd'hui tu es plus méchant que d'habitude. Sais-tu ce que tu vas faire?"_ His other hand was fumbling with his fly. _"Tu vas me sucer la bite."_

Paulo shuddered, his own cock throbbing in his match shorts. Hugo was pulling painfully tight against his hair. Having only one free hand was making it difficult for Hugo to free himself from his pants, but Paulo held back from helping; there was something hot about the illusion that Hugo was forcing this on him, and he didn't want to break that just yet by showing how eager he was.

Finally Hugo got his dick out, and then both his hands were pulling on Paulo's hair. _"Ouvre ta bouche,"_ he hissed, roughly thrusting against Paulo's face. Paulo began to retort that Hugo should make him, but as soon as he opened his mouth Hugo was shoving his cock between his lips, effectively shutting him up.

There was nothing gentle about it. Hugo used his grip on Paulo's hair to control his head, and was fucking his mouth with no finesse at all. Paulo was lucky he had so little of a gag reflex; as it was, his eyes were stinging with tears at how roughly Hugo was thrusting. He forced himself to relax and open his throat, wanting to hold onto Hugo's hips but enjoying the feeling of being used.

Hugo was growling at him in French, too low and fast to pick out more than a few words, but what he did catch made his blood run hot. He knew Hugo was calling him filthy names, telling him what a slut he was, and he loved it, he needed it.

Soon Hugo was yanking his head back and forth, slamming himself down Paulo's throat, hard enough to make his eyes stream with tears. Paulo whimpered. This was utterly humiliating. It was exactly what he wanted. Hugo's voice was rising in pitch now, his fists tightened painfully against Paulo's scalp, and then he was coming. Paulo choked and coughed and tried desperately to swallow, but he could feel Hugo's release trickling down his chin, soaking his beard.

Hugo let him go and took a step back, breathing heavily. Paulo coughed and wiped his face off on his arm. It still wasn't enough. 

He saw Hugo close his eyes as he tried to get his breath back, and seized his chance. He lurched unsteadily to his feet, slipped around behind Hugo, and grabbed a fistful of his hair, sinking his teeth into Hugo's shoulder at the same time.

Hugo let out a roar of rage and surprise and threw an elbow back into Paulo's ribs, trying to turn and shove Paulo back at the same time. They struggled against each other for a moment, Paulo growling low in his throat, Hugo's teeth bared in a feral snarl. Finally Hugo wrestled Paulo off balance enough to shove him down on the bed, where he propped himself on his elbows, staring up at Hugo with a challenge in his eyes. 

Hugo bent over him and ripped the shreds of Paulo's shirt off of him, making it dig into his legs before the remaining threads snapped. Hugo began twisting the tattered pieces together, wrapping it around his fist. Paulo watched him warily, uncertain just what Hugo intended to do.

"If you can't keep that mouth of yours out of trouble, then you don't get to use it," Hugo told him, his voice low and gravelly. "Turn over."

Paulo tilted his head back, thrusting out his chin just a bit in an unmistakable message. _Make me._

Then Hugo's hands were on him, roughly rolling him over and onto his stomach. Hugo leaned over him, planting a knee across the small of his back, and he was jamming the bunched up tatters of the shirt between Paulo's teeth, winding it around and knotting it firmly in place behind Paulo's head.

"Better," Hugo grunted and brought his hand down hard on Paulo's ass. The impact was frustratingly muted by the match shorts Paulo was still wearing.

"Stay," he hissed, his voice dark with fury. "Or it will be worse." 

Paulo turned his head, just enough so that he could see Hugo out of the corner of his eye. His captain was doing up his fly again now, but he didn't stop there. He undid his belt buckle and slipped the smooth brown leather free of his belt loops, doubling it over his palm. Paulo shivered, pressing his cock down against the too-soft surface of the bed. Hugo rarely used the belt on him, preferring his floggers or occasionally a paddle for spanking him. The belt felt more immediate, somehow, less controlled.

"Paulo," Hugo ground out through gritted teeth. "Knock, instead of safeword. Headboard. Yes?"

Paulo nodded, understanding. It wasn’t the first time he had been gagged. He shuddered with anticipation. Once Hugo reminded him of the option to safeword, that was usually when things intensified.

The belt came down diagonally across his back, the tip just barely curling around the edge of his shoulder. It was an overhand swing, Paulo judged, squeezing his eyes shut. There was a stripe of skin from his shoulder about halfway down his ribs that felt like it was on fire.

"Colour?" 

Paulo rapped his knuckles once against the headboard. _Green._ Two knocks for yellow, or slow down; three meant red-- _stop._

_"Bien."_ The belt cracked across his back again, from a different angle this time, the opposite shoulder taking the brunt of the impact. Paulo cried out against the shirt between his teeth, his eyes filling with tears. Beneath him, his neglected dick throbbed.

Hugo worked his way gradually down Paulo's back, laying down stripes of pain in diagonal patterns. Paulo was dimly aware that Hugo was reserving the hardest swings for the areas with the thickest layers of muscle. 

Hugo paused about halfway down and traced a fingertip over his work. "Colour, _pute?"_ he asked softly.

Paulo’s shoulders were on fire, but he managed to raise a hand and knock on the headboard once. _Green._

Hugo growled. The belt fell, harder this time, across his ass. Paulo's match shorts protected his skin from the worst of the sting, but that wasn’t what he wanted. He didn’t want to be protected. He wanted to feel it.

The next blow fell on his ass again, and Paulo waited, knowing he would likely only get a single chance at this. He turned his head, just enough to be able to see when Hugo raised his arm again. Once Hugo had committed to the swing, Paulo's hands darted to his waist and yanked down his match shorts, just ahead of the impact of the belt. The leather stung against his skin and he cried out, though it was muffled by the gag. _That_ was what he needed.

Hugo snarled at him. _"Je ne t'ai dit de faire ça,"_ he barked, dropping the belt and seizing Paulo's wrist. "Now you don't get your hands, either."

Hugo kept an iron grip on Paulo's wrist while he rifled through a drawer of his bedside table. He came up with a pair of soft leather cuffs, and he fixed Paulo with a steely glare. _"Ne bouge pas,"_ he ordered, pulling Paulo's wrist closer to the bedpost.

When both Paulo's hands were cuffed to the bedposts, Hugo stooped to retrieve the belt, then straightened up quickly, his brow creasing. "Paulo, _pourquoi pleures-tu?"_ he asked in a voice that did not belong to Captain Hugo.

Paulo _was_ crying, now-- and not tears of pain, nothing that could be mistaken for enjoyment of the scene. His shoulders were shaking with emotion and his face was screwed up with the effort it was taking not to sob like a child. Hugo knelt next to his head and pulled the gag free from his mouth, then laid a gentler hand on Paulo's hair. "Tell me, _mi amor._ What do you need? Should we stop?"

"I need…" Paulo hiccuped. "Hugo, I-- I want the belt."

"But this is what you are getting, no?"

"I n-need it… on my ass… n-no shorts." Paulo turned his head, trying to wipe his eyes on his shoulders.

Hugo's brow was furrowed. "Paulo, are you sure? It will be more painful."

"Yes," Paulo whispered. _"Por favor, capitán."_

Hugo replaced his gag and straightened up, the belt held loosely in one hand. "You can still knock?"

Paulo's hands were bound fairly close to the headboard now, but at a slightly awkward angle. He tested it, and was able to rap his knuckles against it, enough to satisfy Hugo.

_"Bien,"_ Hugo said. He resumed his position, tugging at Paulo's shorts and underwear until his ass was fully exposed. Paulo's cock, on the other hand, remained trapped inside, straining uselessly. Hugo paused for several long seconds before he lifted his arm to swing again.

The first blow that fell was lighter than the previous ones had been, making Paulo whine pitifully. _Harder,_ he begged silently. _Harder._

Hugo couldn’t hear him, of course, but he understood anyway. The next strike was a bit harder, the one after that a bit more, until Hugo reached a level that pushed Paulo to where he needed to go. The pain was greater, but it took him, at last, out of the anguish in his own mind, to a place where the match didn’t matter, where nothing mattered except for Hugo, giving him exactly what he needed. What he deserved.

He was pushing his ass up now, eager for each impact. His cock was agonisingly hard underneath him, but he didn’t really care. The only thing he cared about was the heat that blossomed across his skin every time the belt came down.

Was Hugo talking to him? He couldn’t even tell. All that mattered was that Hugo kept swinging the belt, again-- and again-- and again--

Something exploded inside of Paulo, pouring out of him in the tears streaming from his eyes, in the cries stifled in his mouth, in the warmth he vaguely felt pooling against his skin as he came in his shorts. He sagged slowly down onto the bed as the ripples began to recede, leaving him shaking and panting.

He didn’t know how long he lay like that. His eyes were open but nothing in front of them registered on him until Hugo’s face swam up before them, and it was sweet Hugo again, his friend, his eyes warm.

“Paulo,” he whispered, removing the gag, the cuffs. “Paulo, _mi querido, estás bien?”_

Paulo focused his eyes on Hugo’s with some difficulty. He couldn’t find his voice, so he settled for a tiny nod instead.

“Good, _mi amor_ , you were so good, _tu étais parfait, mon amour,_ you did so well…” Hugo stayed like that for some time, stroking Paulo’s face and hair, murmuring a stream of praise in a low voice, until Paulo began to stir and become more responsive.

“We’re going to take a shower, _mi alma,”_ Hugo said softly, helping him up. “You made a bit of a mess, I’m afraid.”

Paulo was becoming more and more conscious of the state of his body now, the ache in his jaw, the little bit of burn in his wrists, the searing heat in his back and his ass. He was also very aware of the mess dripping down his legs. A shower was probably a good idea. Hugo stripped his shorts, underwear, and socks off, using them to wipe away what he could, and then led him into the bathroom.

When Hugo guided him into the shower, Paulo was relieved to find the water was a mild temperature; his backside would have made anything warmer unbearable. Hugo washed him with exaggerated tenderness, humming under his breath, dusting gentle kisses in various places as he rinsed away dirt, sweat, grass, anger, and humiliation, leaving behind only love.

Paulo enjoyed having Hugo's hands on his skin, even when he was touching reddened, sensitive areas. His touch was soothing, somehow, a balm against the pain, and so was his voice, whispering sweet words of love in three different languages.

Once out of the shower, Hugo patted his skin lightly with a towel, combed his hair, and wrapped him up in his favourite velvety blue robe. He led Paulo back into the bedroom and got him tucked into bed.

"I need to get us some dinner," Hugo murmured in his ear, gently tracing the edges of Paulo's lips with a fingertip.

Paulo stirred at that. "No," he mumbled, not opening his eyes. "Don't leave me… please…"

"I'll stay," Hugo promised, lacing his fingers together with Paulo's. "I can order something."

Paulo made a soft, contented sound. He wiggled his toes, surprised to discover that he was wearing his fuzzy socks. He had no idea when Hugo had put them on him, but it didn't matter. He let it go readily, letting himself drift, listening to Hugo humming to himself as he picked out food for them on his phone.

"Paulo," came a soft voice, and he opened his eyes, glad to see Hugo's face smiling at him. "There you are," he murmured. "How do you feel?"

Paulo grunted noncommittally.

"What can I do to help, _querido?"_

Paulo shrugged. He didn't know how to put it into words. The worst of his feelings about the match had been expunged by his punishment, leaving him feeling strangely empty. He wasn’t sure that he could explain it to Hugo; he didn't fully understand it himself. Normally a session like that with Hugo should have been enough to have him floating on clouds for a good long while. But today… today he was still on the ground.

“Is it the match?” Hugo asked gently.

Paulo felt fresh tears stinging his eyes, which was answer enough for Hugo.

“Would you like to talk about it?” Hugo paused. “It is okay if the answer is still no.”

He was tempted. Talking about it would be painful, and Hugo was offering him the chance to avoid that. But that reprieve would ultimately be temporary. Maybe it would be better to get through it here, with Hugo, while he felt safe.

“Okay.” He took a deep breath, let it out, but he didn't know quite where to start. 

Hugo squeezed his hand. "We all have bad games, _mi amor._ Is there something about this one that is making you feel this way?"

Paulo thought for a moment. "It… we needed to win," he whispered. His voice felt rusty.

"We always need to win."

Paulo shook his head slowly. "This one… we have been having such a hard time this year."

Hugo nodded. It had been an unusually challenging year, not least for Hugo, as they both knew perfectly well.

"After you were hurt… I tried so hard…"

"And you did so well, sweetheart," Hugo said, bringing Paulo's hand to his lips. "You made it so much easier for me to focus on my recovery, knowing that our goal was in good hands."

"When you came back… I was sad not to play anymore, but… it was a relief too." Hugo nodded, understanding.

"And then… you're hurt again…"

"Nothing like last time," Hugo reassured him.

Paulo nodded. "But I still had to step in. And… we needed a win so badly… and I-- I let you down…" Tears slipped down his cheeks. "I'm sorry, Hugo."

"Oh, Paulo," Hugo whispered. He squeezed Paulo's hand gently. "No one plays perfectly every time. Certainly not me. We can't always control this, when we have a good game, when we have a bad one."

Paulo closed his eyes, shaking his head slightly. "But the team was counting on me. _You_ were counting on me, and I f-failed you…"

_"Non,"_ Hugo whispered fiercely. _"Absolument pas._ Paulo, listen to me. I would love nothing better than to see you become the best player in the world, who never make a mistake, who keep a clean sheet every time. But you are human, like me, and I don't expect this of you. You can never fail me, not when you give your best, because I know you. I know what your best looks like, and I know how hard you work. This result is not good, yes, but I don't put the blame on you. Paulo, I am so proud of you."

He cupped Paulo's face in his hands, brushing away tears with his thumbs. "I love you," he breathed, his lips touching Paulo's, not in a kiss, just a connection. "I am proud of you. Not because I love you, though I do. I was proud of you before I fell in love with you. Seeing you improve and grow as a player has pushed me to keep working to improve myself."

He paused, his eyes searching Paulo's. They were so large, so dark and warm, when Hugo looked at him this way it felt like being wrapped in a warm blanket. "I am glad you are my teammate."

Paulo wept then, clinging to Hugo's arms. He felt like all of the stress he had felt this season, all the pressure of having to step up for Hugo for such a long stretch, had all come to a boil tonight, and now it was overflowing, finally able to leave him now that it had finally become too much to contain.

He cried for some time, and if some of his tears ended up on Hugo's face, well, that was okay. Some of the tears on his face weren't his own, either.

Neither of them could say what would happen for the rest of this season. It wouldn't be easy, for either of them, for any of their team. But facing it together, having this to come home to, made Paulo believe that one or way or another, they would survive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hermanitos - little brothers (used like "bros" here)  
> Salut - Hello
> 
> Pero solo tenías que lastimarte, ¿verdad? Si hubieras sido el que está ahí afuera, esto no habría sucedido. Pero no, no, ni siquiera te molestaste en venir al juego para apoyarme, solo lo viste desde aquí, sentado cómodamente en tu sofá con tus gatos y tu vino
> 
> But you just had to get hurt, didn't you? If you had been the one out there, this wouldn't have happened. But no, no, you couldn't even be bothered to come to the game to support me, you just stayed here, all comfy on your couch with your cats and your wine
> 
> Ta gueule - Shut up (but rude, almost like shut the fuck up)  
> Encule too, salaud - Fuck you, asshole  
> mon Capitaine - my Captain  
> putain - literally "whore" but used here is closer to something like "you fucker"  
> Pourquoi penses-tu pouvoir me parler de cette façon, ma petite pute - Why do you think you can talk to me like that, my little whore?  
> Avais-tu une mauvaise journée? Pauvre bébé - Did you have a bad day? Poor baby.  
> He tenido peor, pero tú también, por supuesto - I've had worse, but of course so have you  
> Comment oses-tu? Ta gueule, maintenant, garce - How dare you? Shut up, now, bitch  
> Aujourd'hui tu es plus méchant que d'habitude. Sais-tu ce que tu vas faire - You're being naughtier than usual today. You know what you're going to do?  
> Tu vas me sucer la bite - You're going to suck my dick  
> Ouvre ta bouche - Open your mouth  
> Bien - good  
> Je ne t'ai dit de faire ça - I never told you to do this  
> Ne bouge pas - Don't move  
> pourquoi pleures-tu - why are you crying  
> mi amor - my love  
> Por favor, capitán - please, captain  
> mi querido, estás bien - my darling, are you okay  
> tu étais parfait, mon amour - you were perfect, my love  
> mi alma - my soul  
> Absolument pas - absolutely not


	2. Epilogue

"Make sure you get it all, please," Hugo said, his voice serious but his eyes full of laughter. "We don't want anyone to get hurt, yes?"

Paulo grumbled. He had almost forgotten about the broken wine glass he had left in the living room earlier, but as soon as Hugo had noticed it before, he had insisted on Paulo cleaning it up immediately. Luckily the cats had steered well clear of it, not caring to risk their tender paws.

So now Paulo was crouched over it, using Hugo's dustpan and whisk broom to carefully sweep up every single shard of glass. He didn't mind the task, really; he enjoyed obeying Hugo, after all. No, what made him grumble, just a bit, was how much humour Hugo always seemed to find in watching him do these things, especially any time it required Paulo to bend or crouch down low. And even that irritation was mostly for show; Paulo loved to see Hugo laugh, and even the hint of embarrassment-- he knew how awkward he looked like this-- just made him want to drag Hugo back to the bedroom again.

But he also rather enjoyed playing it up for Hugo's benefit. So he gave Hugo a sulky glare, sticking his lower lip out until his captain couldn't hold his giggles in anymore.

And when Hugo threw his head back, eyes squeezed shut with laughter, Paulo let himself grin, too. Being with Hugo always did this-- everything, no matter how pedestrian, seemed worthwhile, even fun, when Paulo was with his captain.


End file.
